


Kismet.

by songagainstsex



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, F/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songagainstsex/pseuds/songagainstsex
Summary: He loves her, so when she calls, he comes running. No matter what.
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	1. favourites.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, gorgeous people! this is a whump, inspired by a prompt provided by whumpster-dumpster on tumblr dot com. this is a modern AU and revolves around domestic violence. xx

“Eugene?”

“Yes?”

“Eugene, it’s—”

“I know. Are you okay?”

“Can you come get me?”

“What?”

“Will you come pick me up?”

“I— Rapunzel, it’s— yes, of course. Where are you?”

/

It’s 3:04 in the morning by the time he gets to his car, a beat-up thing that starts only with just the right amount of coaxing. There’s a brief, very brief, moment when he thinks, _what are you doing_ , but it’s easy to quell, when he thinks of how quiet she was and how desperate she sounded. Her voice was so small, a fact that scared him, so he punched the address into his phone and pulled out of his spot on the street in the direction indicated.

\

It’s cold.

Only it’s not really, it’s midsummer and it’s sticky and hot, but her body feels freezing cold, covered in goosebumps. She realises she’s shivering, so she wraps her arms tighter around her chest. 

She’s listening for the sound of movement in the house behind her. She’s sitting on the front stairs, but poised, ready to move at a moments notice, either when Eugene arrives or if the door behind her starts to open. Tears form in her eyes.

How did she get here?

/

Rapunzel’s favourite place to study was a coffee shop down the street from campus. This, by kismet, was where Eugene worked, making caramel maccia-whatever’s for the masses. He noticed her, he’d tell her later, the first time she came in. She did not notice him, but only because she was so focused on her studies. The day that she knocked her entire latte over her notes, he approached her with a towel and a smile. “Don’t worry,” he’d said, wiping the side of the table, “It’ll dry.” Without thinking, she’d leapt onto her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck, maybe because she was so tired she could barely think straight, maybe because it was almost exam week. Mostly because he was kind and she appreciated it.

\

Music hums quietly in the background as he approaches the only house with lights on. And there she is, sitting on the steps. He stops in front of the house, right at the end of the walkway, and this feels symbolic, though he buries that thought somewhere very far away. Instead, he leans over and opens the door to her once she’s close and she climbs in.

He sits expectantly, waiting for an explanation of why he was pulled from his bed at 3 in the morning. The car grumbles. He reaches over and turns off the volume on the radio. “Rapunzel, are you—” he tries again, but she shakes her head, looking out the window.

“Please, just go.”

The front door of the house starts to open and she tenses, but says nothing. 

Eugene sighs and puts the car into drive.

/

3 weeks after he saved her notes from certain doom, Eugene asked Rapunzel to go on a date. A real one. That didn’t involve coffee. Rapunzel, biting her lip and looking down at all the papers spread out in front of her, accepted, but, she said, it had to be after her last exam.

1.5 weeks later, he took her to a diner down the street. It was her request: “I’m dying for breakfast,” she’d said, with a smile that was somehow brighter than her blonde hair. While they ate, they covered the basics: she was studying to be a doctor, completing prerequisites, because it was expected of her. She came from a long line of medical professionals. No, of course she didn’t mind, she found the pressure exhilarating and she wanted to help people. It was what she felt good at. He worked at the coffee shop most days. He had gone to university briefly but couldn’t maintain the schedule. He lived with his mother, who he helped care for because she was sickly and getting sicker. His face was grim when he said this. She reached her hand across the table and put it gently over his. He couldn’t help smiling. When the bill was paid, they stepped outside and he said, “I don’t want this date to end,” which was sentimental in a way he wasn’t typically capable of. Kismet. It was kismet. She, with her hands folded in front of her, tilted her head bashfully, said, “Well, you can come back to my apartment,” an offer he unabashedly accepted.

\

Eugene puts his left directional on, wishing this hellishly quiet ride would end. She’s said nothing and he’s not sure what to say. He wants to ask what’s going on, but it’s twice now that she’s avoided the question. He really, _really_ wants to ask why this couldn’t have waited until a more reasonable hour but can’t bring himself to. And so, the silence seems to stretch on and on between the two of them.

“To the right, please,” she says.

“The right?”

“Yes, to the right,” she points, “that would be that way.”

Her smile is feeble, but he appreciates the attempt at a joke.

“Did you move?” he asks, turning, opposite of where he believes her apartment to be. Has so much changed?

“No, I…,” she pauses and looks at him for just a second, before looking back through the window, “Don’t freak out, but I need you to take me to the hospital.”

/

When they got to her apartment, on their first date, she very casually dropped her keys on a table beside the door and slipped off her shoes. “Have a seat,” she indicated the couch, while she walked to the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

He slipped off his shoes, too, unsure if this was expected or just her preference, before walking to the sofa. “Um…,”

“I’m going to have red wine.”

“Do you have any beer?”

A few minutes later, she appeared with her glass and his bottle. She turned something on in the background, but really, he felt like he’d never wanted to know more about anyone else, so he kept asking questions: do you have any siblings? Do you have any pets? What’s your favourite colour? Is breakfast your favourite meal? Do you drink coffee?

When her wine was finished, she placed the glass down on the table. He gulped down the rest of his beer, which made his head buzz pleasantly. She stood up suddenly then, surprising him. He expected her to say he had to leave, but instead, she held out her hand and he took it without question, letting himself be guided through the rest of the apartment and into her bedroom.

They fell asleep together with every stitch of clothing still on.

\

He stops short, his foot slamming on the breaks. “The hospital? Why do you need to go to the hospital?”

“Eugene, I’m okay I just—”

“If you were okay, you wouldn’t need the hospital!” He throws the car into park and turns to face her, reaching carefully over and taking her hand in his. He doesn’t notice the way she flinches in the dark, but now that they’re stopped, he can see a cut on her lip, red and angry. Does she have a black eye? He wants to turn on the light in the car and inspect further, but some more rational part of his brain tells him not to. “Rapunzel, what’s going on? You can tell me. I just want to help.”

Warm tears fall from her face and onto his hands. “Please, Eugene. I just…” but what _she just_ , is impossible to say. 

He’s alarmed by her tears, but he takes his hands away and puts the car back into drive. “Okay,” he says, now driving with a bit more conviction, a bit faster. “Okay, we’ll go to the hospital.”

She’s staring at him now, thinking a thousand things and nothing at once. “Thank you,” she finally mumbles and he smiles at her, but it’s strained, she can see it in the street lights. She’s worried him, which is the last thing that she wanted to do. She shouldn’t have called him at all. She knows it’s not fair to him, but she can almost hear him saying: _what happened to you wasn’t fair either, Sunshine_. Her head falls heavy against the headrest and she turns her attention to the world outside, a black blur, passing her by.


	2. blooming.

When they get into the emergency room, she fills out some paperwork that asks questions about her insurance before asking exactly what hurts. He paces around her, without looking at the form, but gets more and more antsy the longer it takes her to fill it out. When she finally hands the clipboard back to the kind woman behind the desk, she’s directed to have a seat, the doctor will be with her shortly.

She sits in a corner and he sits adjacent to her. “Do you remember,” she asks suddenly, looking up at the ceiling, while he stares pointedly at his hands, “when we went hiking that time? And we asked for directions from someone who wasn’t wearing shoes?”

“Of course I remember,” he says immediately ( _I remember everything_ ), “I still believe you were looking into your future. Hiking shoeless.”

She’s still looking up and Eugene glances over just long enough to see marks on her neck-- long and thin. Like fingers? _What’s happened?_

“I wish,” she says to the tiles above her, “I wish that things had been different.”

He knows what she means-- at least in part.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you think it could still be? Different, I mean?”

Hand shaped. Those marks are distinctly hand shaped.

“Maybe, but--”

“Rapunzel?” a nurse calls.

She tilts her head forward, to see he’s looking at her. She smiles at him, dulled, a shadow of herself, “Wait for me?”

_I would wait my whole life for you._

“Yeah, of course, I’ll be right here.”

\

It was, frankly, a shock to them both that she was the one who broke his heart.

/

It was quiet, evening, late, sometime after their 3 year anniversary. She remembers it because the whole world was on the precipice of Spring, everything was just beginning to bud and bloom. Her whole chest blossomed with a feeling of something undefinable when she looked at him, something more and deeper than just love or affection or adoration. She’s never been able to replicate that something since.

All of this is what made it feel so much worse to tell him a lie.

So it was evening and they were sitting on her couch, in her apartment, where he didn’t live (but really, he did). She was tense, her arms and legs were crossed around her, hair wild and splayed around her face. She was folded in and he swore she’d evaporate into nothing if she wound herself up any tighter. He even said something to that effect, a small smile dancing across his face, but it elicited nothing from her, so he tried, “Something wrong?” instead, nudging her lightly with his elbow.

Her eyes closed and she let out a sigh. Her face got hard, stern even, and she looked at him in a way that she knew he’d never forget. It was etched across his features, the startled way he took her in, before she said, “I don’t love you anymore.”

“You what?”

Her voice, somehow quieter, somehow void of any emotion though what she felt was something closer to shame than relief. She repeated it, “I don’t love you anymore,” and turned her face away again so she didn’t have to see his heart break. So he didn’t have to watch her own shatter.

He didn’t say a word, uncharacteristic for a man who struggled with silence, but he didn’t have to. What she wanted was for him to yell at her, tell her that he knew she was full of shit, lying to him. She wanted him to say that he loved her and that he wouldn’t accept this. 

She didn’t even have to explain any more than that, though in fairness _I don’t love you anymore_ is quite a show stopper when directed at the love of your life. She said nothing. She just had to let the gulf grow between them, give her lie space to expand in the room. She suffocated on those words that day and always wondered if he did too.

In the end, she couldn’t stand it a second longer, so after a few tense minutes (that passed like hours), she said, “You need to leave,” and there was a moment, a brief second, where it looked like he might have something to say about that. Before he had the opportunity to, she added, “Please, Eugene.”

And so he did.

\

He hears it over and over again:

_I don’t love you anymore. You need to leave. Please, Eugene._

And because he loved (loves) her, he left in silence.

/

The emergency room is quiet, given the hour.

It’s hard not to wonder if she’s okay. What’s going on. _Was that a handprint on her throat?_

His mind strays. He doesn’t want to think about it, what it means. What happened to her.

In the tiles on the ceiling, he counts all the ways in which he still loves her.   
Won’t ever stop.   
Can’t bring himself to.   
Barely even _tries_ anymore.

\

3 days after they broke up, he went to her house to pick up a shirt he forgot.

He hated it, it felt desperate and disgusting. He wanted to respect her and do what she’d asked him to, leave and not look back. The problem was it made no sense. He didn’t understand it. So he texted her and asked if she had the shirt. When she didn’t answer, he added that he didn’t care if she did, hell, she could keep it, he was just curious. When she finally answered, she told him _it’s here_ and said he could come by and pick it up in an hour.

So he went (and brought with him too much optimism).

He stood in the doorway, took the shirt and other items she’d gathered together for him, presumably to avoid having this happen again. His stomach hurt and he knew it was wrong, but as he took the items from her, his mouth ran dry. “I don’t want this to happen,” he said thickly, clinging tightly to the small bit of her he had left.

More silence.

“I know,” she said finally. What he remembers now is the way she looked at anything except his face. “I know, but I-- we just can’t do this.”

“Right. Because you don’t love me anymore.”

She stared at her shoes and just barely nodded.

He nodded back, still staring at the items in his hands. “You really don’t?”

“Eugene, I… We can still be friends.”

“Right. Okay.”

“If I find anything else of yours, I’ll mail it to you. Or bring it by the cafe.”

“Yeah, sure.” _More silence._ “Well. See you later.”

The door shut softly in front of him and he wandered back to his car. 

None of the pieces fit together. (They still don’t.) He tossed the stuff she’d given him on the passenger’s seat, turned the engine over, and drove away.

\

A gentle hand on his shoulder rouses him, though he starts awake, bolting upright in his chair and looking wildly at the person who’s waking him.

“Sorry,” he says frantically, and then again after a second. He reorients himself, to the smells of the hospital, to the fact that he’s here with her, to this kind woman waking him. He rubs his eyes, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” the nurse smiles at him, though it's small, almost sad. 

_Why are there handprints on her throat?_

“She’s asking for you,” the nurse continues after a minute, which for some reason makes his heart flutter.

He stands immediately and nods, “Where is she?”

Before the nurse can answer, there’s heavy steps pounding toward reception and then yelling: “Where is she? I know she’s here!” which drowns out the petite woman behind the counter, saying things like ‘who do you mean,’ and ‘I’m happy to see if there’s a release to speak with you, sir.’ His hands ball into fists and he slams it against the tabletop. Somehow, the whisper that follows is more lethal, “Tell me where she is.”

It happens quickly: the stranger’s head turns and his eyes narrow. “ _You_ ,” he says, pointing at Eugene. 

Eugene, oblivious, points at himself, “Me?” he says coyly, though this is a mistake, he realises it instantly, as this hulking figure stalks toward him.

“Where is she!”

“Whoa! Hey, man, relax! Do I even know you?” Eugene takes a step back.

“Where is she!” He says again, pointing in his direction, taking another step forward, causing Eugene to take another step back. His voice is loud and grating, “TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!”

“Sir!” the nurse says firmly, shocking both Eugene and The Stranger. “Sir, you need to have a seat or I’m going to call security. I’ll be right back to get information from you and see how we might be able to help.”

The Stranger narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he plops himself down across from Eugene, holding his hands up in defeat. “Okay, okay. I’m here to see my girlfriend. Rapunzel. So if you could tell her I’m here, I’d sure appreciate it, doll.”

Girlfriend. _Girlfriend_. Eugene’s head spins.

“I’m not your doll,” the nurse says immediately, and then she says, “I’ll be right back.” She turns to Eugene and he swears there’s something almost sorry in the way she looks at him. “You should go sit over there, honey,” she tells him, gesturing over in the opposite corner. “I know you’re not looking for any trouble.”

Eugene nods curtly, recognising as good advice, and walks toward the other end of the room. 

_Girlfriend._   
He sits.   
_Girlfriend?_  
Those marks were hand shaped.  
 _Girlfriend…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i'm so slow. but you're all lovely. i'll be back sooner than last time, i hope. xx


End file.
